Rev. Dr. Howard Thurman

Don't ask yourself what the world needs.  Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and then go do that.  Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

High rise

July 11, 2011

Elena Huegel

High rise above the city

                pumped like breath and blood

                awakening iron rod and glass

                giant feeding off the earth

                full of two legged fleas

                crawling up flights of stairs

                or waiting impatiently outside

                the elevator doors. Striving to

Rise high above the city.

Hammock of hands

Jan. 16, 2015

We weave a net with all our hands

To catch hope and let fear escape.

A handy net

                To cradle the world.

Bring your hands:

                Your working hands

                With cracked nails.

                Your folded hands

                Praying at the rail.

                Your grubby hands,

                With sand, shovel and pail.

                Your manicured hands

                With sculpted nails.

Together we weave a hammock of hands

To gently rock the world.

Laughter and babbling brook…

Gather in the net!

Hunger, hate and horror…

Shake, shake, shake them out!

Humming birds and wild flowers…

Gather in the net!

Word-blows and worries…

Shake, shake, shake them out!

Childplay and simple joy…

Gather in the net!

Snake fang and heart pain…

Shake, shake, shake them out!

Bear hugs and skipping rope…

Gather in the net!

Gloating, gossip and ignorance…

Shake, shake, shake them out!

Cradle the world in a

Hammock of interwoven hands.

Cloud veil by Elena Huegel

A cloud is the thin veil which hides God so we are not terrified by the vastness of the sky.  A starry night is a window into eternity and a reflection of our insignificance.  Look through the window long enough and get pulled through. Lose yourself.  God hides behind the thin veil on the mountain where we are transfigured with Christ, terrified with the disciples, and lost to ourselves.

Hide in the veil, o God, and hold me tight when you terrify me.  Jan 2, 2015. 

The Wall by Nicolás Guillén

For us to build this wall,
bring me all the hands:
the black their hands black,
the white their hands white.
Aye,
A wall that stretches
from the beach to the mountain,
from the mountain to the beach,
there over the horizon.
- Knock, knock!
- Who’s there?
- A rose and a carnation
- Open the wall!
- Knock, knock!
- Who’s there?
- The colonel’s saber
- Close the wall!
- Knock, knock!
- Who’s there?
- The pigeon and the laurel
- Open the wall!
- Knock, knock!
- Who’s there?
- The scorpion and the centipede
- Close the wall!
To the heart of a friend,
open the wall;
To the poison and the dagger,
close the wall;
To the myrtle and mint,
open the wall;
To the snake’s teeth,
close the wall;
to the nightingale in the flower,
open the wall.
Let us raise a wall
putting together all the hands
the black, their hands black,
the white, their white hands.
A wall that stretches
from the beach to the mountain,
from the mountain to the beach,
there over the horizon.

Amazing Peace: A Christmas Poem By Dr. Maya Angelou

Amazing Peace: A Christmas Poem

By Dr. Maya Angelou

Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes
And lightning rattles the eaves of our houses.
Flood waters await us in our avenues.

Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche
Over unprotected villages.
The sky slips low and grey and threatening.

We question ourselves.
What have we done to so affront nature?
We worry God.
Are you there? Are you there really?
Does the covenant you made with us still hold?

Into this climate of fear and apprehension, Christmas enters,
Streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope
And singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air.
The world is encouraged to come away from rancor,
Come the way of friendship.

It is the Glad Season.
Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner.
Flood waters recede into memory.
Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us
As we make our way to higher ground.

Hope is born again in the faces of children
It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets.
Hope spreads around the earth. Brightening all things,
Even hate which crouches breeding in dark corridors.

In our joy, we think we hear a whisper.
At first it is too soft. Then only half heard.
We listen carefully as it gathers strength.
We hear a sweetness.
The word is Peace.
It is loud now. It is louder.
Louder than the explosion of bombs.

We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by its presence.
It is what we have hungered for.
Not just the absence of war. But, true Peace.
A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.
Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas.
We beckon this good season to wait a while with us.
We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come.
Peace.
Come and fill us and our world with your majesty.
We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian,
Implore you, to stay a while with us.
So we may learn by your shimmering light
How to look beyond complexion and see community.

It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time.

On this platform of peace, we can create a language
To translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.

At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the Birth of Jesus Christ
Into the great religions of the world.
We jubilate the precious advent of trust.
We shout with glorious tongues at the coming of hope.
All the earth's tribes loosen their voices
To celebrate the promise of Peace.

We, Angels and Mortal's, Believers and Non-Believers,
Look heavenward and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at our world and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at each other, then into ourselves
And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation.

Peace, My Brother.
Peace, My Sister.
Peace, My Soul.”

Downtown Talca 2010

Today, as I was working on the trauma healing project:  Roots in the Ruins: Hope in Trauma, I remembered the Feb. 27th, 2010 Earthquake....

Downtown Talca after the Earthquake

I walked downtown today

as I have countless times before,

crossing the main square to the post office

then heading up South One, the shopping street.

Weaving in and out, avoiding

people columned like dominoes

round the corner and

up the steps into the bank.

The lady selling band aids,

out-shouts other vendors,

and beggars,

and the music escaping from shops

to gulp down the morning breath of

coffee or fried food.

The policeman with the police dog watch

just like any other day.

It brings me up short.

I twist my head, ears straining

To fill in what is missing

behind the familiar noise…

Deafening silence.

I walk a little further and

stop.

I perceive

past the cacophony of

normalcy…

Screaming silence.

My heart skips

a beat

or two.

I, the one who loves silence,

   who pursues quiet

   like the photographer who seeks

   the prized instant

   when the shutter snaps and

   freezes time,

am frightened.

While others weep before the walls fallen,

  the holey roofs imprisoned behind the

  barrier of red warning tape,

  and the buildings condemned by orange

  spray paint crossing out another burial site,

I am engulfed by the

raging silence.

Two blocks, then three; and

silence hunts me down, a mountain lion

intent on its prey. My legs stay but my pounding

heart runs away, failing  gallantly

to imagine the stolen sounds

that left behind the

vacuum.

I turn into a busy street,

welcoming as never before,

the hum idling at a stoplight,

the screech of brakes,

the roar of revving motors, that

drown out the

silence

of downtown Talca after the

earthquake.

Elena Huegel

March 24, 2010